


The Ghost on the Shore

by thepotterer



Series: Toms and Riddles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Cigarettes, Depression, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, M/M, Master of Death (Harry Potter), Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Personification of Death, Psychological Trauma, The Deathly Hallows, Time Skips, Time Travel, Tom is a Sweetheart, War with Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepotterer/pseuds/thepotterer
Summary: The year is 2060: a witch thwartened a god and foolishly thought she was going to get away with it. Back in time, she found herself in a rather delicate position. She makes a choice then, a reckless one. In the Christmas morning of 1934, an encounter not meant to happen, happens: eight-year-old Tom Riddle finds an odd sort of companionship in a time-traveller witch and her loyal dog Sirius. If she shatters some of his beliefs on the way, it's surely just a matter of betterment of his perspectives.An entire year later, in the Christmas night of 1935, as Tom Riddle Sr. tries to drown all the ghosts tormenting him, an unexpected arrival at a pub changes his perspective. Suddenly, a son has his father. Inbetween gods and mortal men whom wage their wars comes the unavoidable question: is power a curse or a blessing?
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Mary Riddle/Thomas Riddle, Minerva McGonagall/Dorea Black Potter, Tom Riddle Sr./Original Female Character(s)
Series: Toms and Riddles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780120
Comments: 16
Kudos: 98





	1. If brokenness is a form of art I must be a poster child prodigy

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter's universe and its characters belongs to Joanne Kathleen Rowling, aka J. K. Rowling, unfortunately. And I would like very much to clarify that J.K's transphobic arse ISN'T supported here and so on.

**PART I**

**OF MORTAL MEN**

  
  
  
  


**1935 ― 1936**

A good seat near to a crackling fireplace, another sip of brandy straight from the bottle and a few moments of solitude in a foreign pub: all Tom Riddle could ask for any Christmas.

He could no longer drink in peace at any pub in Little Hangleton and thereabouts due to the indiscrete starings, the whispers about his marriage with the tramp’s daughter, everyone always speculating on his sanity after he foolishly told them he was bewitched by _her_.

He was even accused of being queer after he refused to remarry — many girls still swooned over the handsome, melancholic and rich heir of the Squire, even if he’s a bit batty now —, which resulted in his expulsion from several pubs and a week in prison all due to rumours.

Tom shivered with the memory of that dreadful place.

Small-town citizens paid no mind to the loathsome law that bound him to Merope Gaunt who, for all intents and purposes, was his wife and this very tie prevented him from remarrying — **_till death do us part_ ** — even _if_ he wanted to. Which he doesn’t, thank you very much.

Life as a bachelor has its appeals, he supposed, even if he preferred to linger in pubs of dubious reputation than accept his old schoolmates’ invites to universities parties in big places like London or Oxford, meetings and parties and balls he doesn’t have the spirit to attend.

The sad thing is that he could not remember faithfully if he had ever been a big participant in these festivities. All he had left were blurry memories of youth, an unhappy marriage that hurt him beyond what he could express in words, and a bottle of cheap brandy in a corner.

 _Well,_ he took a sip. _At least they’re not here_.

His parents are part of the reason why now he refrained from drowning his sorrows in expensive alcoholic beverages in the cosiness of his home as he had done for most of the past nine years, choosing to drink cheaper versions of cognac somewhere strange instead: Tom found that he could no longer stand his mother's watery eyes when she saw him lose his head over a ghost, nor could he stand the awkward pats on the shoulder from his father.

The solution he had found for his drinking dilemma was to travel to smaller places that were far from his hometown and the judgemental people who’d lived in it, his parents included. 

Godric's Hollow, for example, a friendly village in the southwest with a population smaller than Little Hangleton, had only one pub and a few drink options in the guesthouse where he slept throughout the week, most importantly though, no one here had heard of his tale of woe.

It’s a funny place, he thinks, full of odd stories. An old man swore the village was named after a great wizard in the Middle Ages, saying it was called Goat’s Step before _that Godric chap._

Tom just nodded along, listening to the man tell about this Godric Gryffindor as if he had met him in person. Tom was not a skeptic, not after Merope, and the old man certainly knew how to tell a story, but the poor man was certainly not quite right in the head to tell the story as if that Godric, supposedly a wizard, was a good person. Wizards are no good, Tom knows it.

The important thing, however, was that no one in Godric’s Hollow heard of the Riddles from Little Hangleton and their old money, so Tom could be just another drunk, rambling idiot stepping in and out of the pub without being recognized as the Squire's dewdropper son. 

Far from it, the villagers seemed too happy gossiping about one of their neighbours, an unmarried woman who had adopted a child a year or so ago, an act out of generosity for some and of lunacy for others — some even speculated whether the child was in fact adopted and not a product of a reckless night in her teenage years —, to pay him much attention. 

“She has the Devil’s eyes.” The old man, the same one who had told him about Godric Gryffindor and Goat’s Step, told him in a hushed tone about the woman who arouses so much curiosity in the villagers. “And that boy of hers — he has them too. Death’s eyes.”

Ominous, Tom shrugged the old man off. He has often been the subject of all sorts of ghastly rumours himself, and learned better than trust in every single thing the rumour’s mill says.

On the other hand Henry, the Hanged Man’s bartender, felt very strongly about all the talking going around, crossly saying, “I won't have any of yeh badmouthin' her in me face!” before kicking out some of the customers with ultmost loose language about the topic.

“Don’t pay ‘em heed, sir,” the bartender grumbled as he handled another bottle of cheap brandy to Tom. “These bastards! They don' respect the’r own spouses—”

Tom was definitely not interested in listening about someone else's troubled marriage, so he checked the seal on the bottle — the last time he drank something unsealed he ended up in a shabby London suburb married to a madwoman — and seeing that everything was in order, Tom made a slightly toast to Henry, leaving the bartender talking to himself at the counter.

The temperature plummeted with the twilight of the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas Eve, and now Tom can see snowflakes, white and chilly, falling outside through the window opposed to his privileged spot near the fireplace. The fireplace in question was made of brute dark grey stone, looking as if it had been dig into the wall, and kept a fire that needed to be stoked fewer times than most and prevented all the customers from freezing to death.

On the table at which Tom comfortably sat were the unfinished brandy bottle and a black leathered journal in which he made some scribbles and notes.

With some flourishes made with his fountain pen, Tom sketched the bartender's thick, red beard and eyebrows and his large, freckled nose. Previously, Tom had sketched an old lady with sharp eyes and knobbly knees who'd entered the bar earlier with a cat under her arm and some insults about the _scotch_ Henry had sold to her the previous morning; and of an youthful black couple who'd stopped by for lunch and wished all of them a Happy Christmas. 

The Hanged Man was a bright place, warm and cosy throughout the day, the floor made of stone blocks embedded and the walls of a mixture of stone and shiny wood. Customers came and went all the time, grumbling or laughing, shedding tears or whistling some merry tune.

Tom was, wondrously, not one of them.

He kept to himself mostly, drinking and sketching and smoking, absentmindedly answering a thing or other when asked. A cuckoo clock on the wall announced the time, and it was a quarter to midnight when Tom lit another cig, smoked a bit and went back to drawing.

Tom fancied the arts since he was a little boy, having the influence of his mother, a painter and pianist herself, to whom he could look up for tidbits of advice. She was the one who had patiently taught him to draw more realistic hands and feet and face shapes, although Tom was still unable to draw a straight nose. Or a decent mouth, thinking about it.

His father, on the other hand, did not approve of his only son and heir's interest in something he considered useless and often enough he tried to convince Tom to enter university as a law or medical student or something as respectable. He hadn't been so vocal about it lately, but Tom suspected it was because his father already considered him a hopeless case.

He had finished his second cigarette when a boy not older than ten came running into the pub, gesticulating a lot to Henry with his gloved hands, flushed from the cold, and the stunted and choppy speech of someone who seemed to have run a lot to get there.

“Calm yehrself, lad!” Henry came out from behind the counter, grabbing the boy's shoulders with a worried frown. “Wha' happen'?”

“It's my fault, Harry, my mum — ‘go skatin' with me today,’ I said, and she — the lake’s ice broke, Harry!” he hurriedly told the bartender before stumbling in a strong Cockney accent. “W'ile she was t'ere! Somet'ing grabbed 'er leg — I don' know! — she needs help!”

Tom's breath caught as the panicked boy whirled around, looking for support.

The clock struck midnight.

 _It’s the witching hour, and all sorts of strange things are out, lurking in the shadows, waiting,_ a fragment out of a tale suddenly came to him. It’s the only explanation Tom has for this: a carbon copy boy, the spitting image of himself at eight or maybe ten years of age, tall and skinny, wavy hair that hasn't finished colouring to a dark brown yet, dusky blue eyes bordering on a violet hue, less defined cheekbones and chin, fuller cheeks.

An echo.

_“... a son! Our son! A little boy, I feel it is!”_

Tom drops his unfinished cig.

“No, no, no, it _can't_ be,” Tom chanted repeatedly in his head, desperately, eyes widened to saucers, that wretched woman — witch, a _witch!_ — had lied to him about being pregnant years ago. It was all a bait to keep him beside her, so she could ensnare him again.

Tom was on the verge of crying.

He is sure it’s all a filthy lie of hers.

Until he is not. 

He breathes heavily, the doubt would eat him alive, he knew it would.

“Your mother, you said?” There was no one else there to answer his dry, blank question, everyone had gone out to try to aid the boy’s mother.

Whoever she is.

Tom Riddle drank the remaining half of his bittersweet brandy in one go, quickly grabbed his black velvet overcoat and hat and left the pub, the cold wind of winter blowing in his pale face, snowflakes gathering over him as his riding boots sank into the snowy ground.

Tom followed the commotion on horseback.

He had to be sure.

A mile or two down the village borders, in a clearing that opened onto a frozen lake whose ice had cracked in some parts and shattered completely in others, the villagers were gradually huddling together to see what was going on, holding torches or saucer with burning candles, the fire casting shadows on their faces and providing a solemn look to their expressions.

From the loin of his well-bred horse, at this distance, Tom could barely see over the clustered heads and burning torches raised in the air, trying to focus on the image of the lanky boy he had seen earlier at the pub. He firstly spots the same old woman he had sketched, then Henry the bartender and between them, the boy stands still, tousling his locks with gloved fingers.

Tom recognizes the gesture on the spot, it’s nervousness. Tom knows the boy is troubled because he does exactly the same thing with his hair when he's overwhelmed.

Dread pooled in his stomach at the mere sight of it.

A large, black, shaggy dog drags a woman's grayish, limp body to the lake’s shore, howling loudly and ferociously for anyone who dared to approach its owner’s body.

Whispers broke through the crowd. 

“Is she—”

“— good God!”

“ — the poor dearies!”

A woman broke into sobs.

Tom dismounted with ease, boots clicking on the icy ground, politely pushing people out of his way as he approached the lake’s shore, heart beating twice as fast in his chest while sheer fear — for himself, for this unknown boy — thundered through his thoughts. 

The woman brought to the shore wasn't, most importantly, Merope.

Tom shuddered at the mere thought of her crossed-eyes. Call him a futile, cold and heartless bastard, but he would most certainly not wish to approach that ugly _soul_ again.

Loose bits of information swimmed through his brain as he approached: an unmarried woman who had adopted a child, the protectiveness of Henry towards her, the boy’s looks — it’s almost scary how much they look alike, the boy could have been Tom’s twin —, the hint of intimacy when the boy addressed Henry as Harry and the uncertainty about the boy’s father.

None of this made sense right away.

The dog, too shaggy to be a labrador and too huge to be anything else but, lifted its head from its owner's abdomen, grey eyes shining curious in the half light of the clearing. It stopped its howling, tilting its triangular head as if intrigued by Tom, making no harsh sounds or moves towards him when he knelt beside the woman’s unmoving form to check her vitals. 

The first thing he does is check for the presence or absence of breathing. She is not breathing, he concludes. Lips and fingertips bluish, he observes, and her pulse was almost nonexistent.

He had to swallow his own distaste for the thing he was about to do. It would do him no good if the woman died and escaped the questions he had for her, after all.

He sighs, acting quickly. 

“Watcha ya doin’?!”

Ignoring the disapproving shouts of the villagers, Tom crossed the fingers of his left hand over the ones of his right and massaged her thorax for a minute, then took a deep breath.

He pinched her nose — closing her nostrils — and brought his mouth close to hers, blowing air in there. He did it twice, three times, following all the steps he had been taught by the family’s doctor when his own mother almost drowned on the Hornsea's beach. 

On the fourth attempt, she roared water out of her nose and mouth, instinctively turning to the side to profusely spat some more. Tom held her shoulders supportingly as her dog barked happily, and the indignant, incredulous looks of the crowd turned quickly to awe. 

Tom noticed a seemingly fresh scar on the back of her neck when she turned to spat, however, before he could make sense of its weird shape, she viciously grabbed his fingers.

Tom panicked silently: in doing that, she unconsciously reminded him of another vicious-gripping woman, _dark lashes fluttering slowly at him,_ and Tom could swear he saw a glint of unnatural, inhuman gold flicker behind her haunted emerald green eyes. 

_She has the Devil’s eyes._

Tom felt breath escaping him.

“Thank you, sir.”

Tom blinked out of his hard-to-breathe reverie as his own voice lined with a childish undertone reached his ears. He blinked again, twice and thrice, the boy was hugging the previously unconscious woman, who was apparently too bewildered to react.

Violet-blue eyes, sharpened for things of which Tom doesn’t understand the depth, violet-blue eyes so rare, Tom had inherited his from his mother and perhaps passed the trait on to a son, this boy, a son he had not known about the existence until this very moment.

Tom knowns not if he’s more glad or regretful about this unexpected discovery. 

“It’s fine,” he rasps out, but honestly, it’s not. “Here.” He stands, disposes of his expensive overcoat easily. “Keep her warm, will you?” he instructs dully, handling his coat to the boy.

Tom wants to tell him.

Tom wants to protect him from the truth.

Tom wants to hide in a hole.

The boy takes it with a nod. “Thank you.”

Tom says nothing.

Tom wonder if the child knows who he is to him — if the boy had noticed the strikingly similarities between them — a moment before stepping back and hastily walking to his horse, decision made, ignoring the villagers praises of his resurrection techniques. 

Too frightened, he mounted and fled.

The sound of hooves was lost in the darkness of the night as well as Tom's unsaid words. 

Stopping at a different pub in a different town, thighs aching from a restless night on a horse, Tom asked for a bottle of brandy and cigarettes, soliciting pencil and paper too, remembering that in his haste to get as far as possible from Godric's Hollow, he had forgotten to stop at the Hanged Man and collect his things — his journal, his pen and the remains of his dignity. 

Sitting at a harsher designed table, one illuminated by candlelight, he scribbled the face of his son, who did look like his self-portrait only twenty years younger.

Then, he doodled almost imperceptibly the woman on the shore.

She had an oval face, which meant that her chin lines and cheekbones were more rounded as well as her forehead. And albeit young — she _seemed_ younger than him —, she’d already possess a few wrinkles on the corner of her eyes and mouth from smiling.

Tom could not relate: he couldn't remember a time in which he'd smiled so freely as to wrinkle his skin. She must've been happy all her life, he thought a little sourly, without an ambitious sorceress to wreck her life with love spells or potions.

He continued to draw.

Her wet curly hair looked dark brown in the flickering light of the torches, so he imagined that perhaps the real colour was a lighter brown or even dark blond, her eyes the colour of the grass at dusk in the _oh-so-familiar_ dark green valley of Little Hangleton.

And he’s well aware this bad quality pencil did not do justice to the spectral woman's haunted eyes — and what could have haunted her so badly? He wonders and admits that, if he were to be the same Tom Riddle from a decade or more ago, the same Tom Riddle who had fallen in love with Cecília's beautiful royal blue eyes, now he would undoubtedly try to get the attention of the nameless woman's green ones.

There's just something otherworldly about her.

And what are women, Tom lit another cig, letting his tears fall, if not an otherworldly tragedy? 

Waking up at his table in the pub the morning after, his thoughts cleared up by a blessed night without a lovesick witch hissing promises of love in his sleep, Tom realized some things.

Firstly, his documents and the majority of his money were in the leather wallet he had left in his overcoat's pocket, the same one he had left at Godric's Hollow along with the rest of his honour in his son's hands. Secondly, he needed to make an important decision.

Tom felt the beginning of a long-time headache.

He settled for a more simple, easeful way of thought as he turned another bottle of brandy down his throat, feeling the burning liquid dull his already dulled senses, preparing himself for the lecture he would receive when Squire Thomas Riddle found out about a grandson.

His father would have kittens, certainly, _if_ he caught wind of these news.

“Do you know who called me this morning?”

“By your tone, dear father,” Tom drawled out, harshly cutting his meat, a sour frown downturning his lips. He was in a particular bad mood that night. “It wasn’t the King, was it?”

Tom felt this cheek burn with the weight of his father's hand, dropping the silverware, bewildered for not seeing any of it coming.

His father had never laid a hand on him.

“Thomas!” his mother shrieked. 

Tom closed his eyes then, taking on a deep breath, counting backwards from one hundred, listening to his father as he hastily broke the news to his unsuspecting mother: Tom’s _son_ had phonecalled in the morning, the boy was not enough stupid not to connect the dots.

It's his own fault for leaving his wallet behind but even so.

_Even so._

Tom fumed, feeling an irrational amount of rage for that boy — _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ , the nerve of that cynic woman was truly unbelievable! — for intruding more and more into his already convoluted life, for daring to ask Tom for something he does not owe him.

He tried to explain. 

He tried to make them understand his point, he tried to apologize to his parents, but he found out that the apology died in his throat. Should he apologize to them at all?

How can he, how would he begin to explain how terrified, how disgusted, how guilty and ashamed and furious he felt when he discovered he had had a son with the woman who had— he didn't have even a proper word to describe what she had done to him! 

“The boy shouldn’t exist!” Tom wanted desperately to scream his parents' ears out and make them _understand._ "He is— he is—"

He doesn't say a word, too furious to be able to formulate a coherent sentence. Tom felt furious at his parents for taking a stranger's word for truth and blaming him for something that even Tom could not explain properly, judging him through and through when none of them had a right. When none of them could—

Tom feels the clutches of bottled up fear gripping his heart as his anger burns and dies silently, and suddenly, too abruptly—

He can breathe no more. 

He dedicated himself to the piano in the coming weeks, putting all his pain on the keys and praying that the music could wash his soul anew like the rain washes the dust off of the valley in the summer. By the end of it, he realized he owed no one an apology. 

Neither did the boy.

One morning of March, Tom gathered enough courage to call the boy using the number his father scrawled on a piece of paper and left next to the candlestick telephone on the study’s worktable. For when, in his father’s own words, Tom decided to act like a man of respect.

“Good morning, Mr. Riddle,” the telephonist’s womanly, friendly voice replied. “How can I be of service?”

“Morning’, Grace.” He heard an excited squeal on the other end of the line and a hushed _'Tom Riddle knows my voice!’_ that made his bottom lip curl in both distaste and amusement. “Can you call 777 at Godric's Hollow, please?”

“777, Godric's Hollow, registered to Elladora L. Peregrine.” Tom tapped his fingers on the worktable's surface, impatiently. “It's on.”

“Thanks, Grace.” He heard a giggle before a brief static. “Hello, Ms. Peregrine? Can you hear me? It’s Tom Riddle on the line.”

“Yes, Mr. Riddle, clearly,” she assured him. “You want to speak to your son, I suppose.”

Tom bristles, the idea of a son burns him despite of the months he had to warm up to it, and he thinks about ending the call rather harshly when he refrains from doing so. “I suppose so,” he says instead, pulling a lock of his combed hair. “I don't really know what to say.”

“I understand the shock to discover yourself as a parent so suddenly, don't worry. I wasn’t expecting to be a mother either. Turns out, I am.”

“Are you disappointed?” Tom couldn’t help but sound rather sour, bitterness slipping in every single word. “That he has me? Doesn’t it threatens your… fostering?”

“I don’t know,” she replied evenly. “Does it?” The lack of concern in her voice startled him. It was as if she wasn’t too worried with the possibility of losing the boy’s guard.

As if it wasn’t a possibility at all.

Tom composed himself. “Can I talk to him?”

“‘Course,” she says. “And Mr. Riddle?”

“Yes?”

“If you want a tip,” she continues, “be patient and don’t lie to him. Tom is a smart kid, and he has a bright future ahead. I don’t want him throwing it away ‘cause of daddy issues.”

Tom doesn’t know how to respond politely to it.

“Why do you think I _need_ your advice?”

“Maybe you don't,” she concedes, unbothered. “It’s only my way of saying ‘thanks,’ you see, for saving my life that night. It’s the polite thing to do.” _The polite thing to do._ Tom doesn’t know if she is scolding him for his manners or if she is just _that_ arrogant. 

Tom could only hear the woman's unfazed breath for quite some time, not trusting himself not to respond uncivilly. 

“I’ll fetch him for you," she said then, "it’ll take just a sec.”

It seemed more like an eternity.

Tom had mussed all his hair by the time the boy was put on the line.

“So," the boy snickered humourlessly, "you are no longer a coward.”

Tom sighs heavily. “I truly am sorry.”

“Good,” his son countered, seeming to bite back a more angry retort. “How long?”

“The moment I set eyes on you. I realized then—”

“You left me,” the boy cut in bitterly. “Twice.”

Tom closed his eyes as if slapped again, harder. 

“I left you mother,” he countered, heart sinking low, “not you. She was...” _A freak_. Tom swallowed his thoughts. “Your mother and me… We didn’t—”

“Dora said it’s not your fault. _Entirely._ ” Listening to his son uneven breathe on the other side, Tom feared he would end the call for good. “She said you could explain. Can you?” 

Tom found himself using Miss Peregrine's advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title is from another music, 'Neptune' by Sleeping At Last, it's a very good song.
> 
> Also, don't forget to block those famous assholes who use their media to spread hate. And don't forget to sign the petitions here: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/


	2. I made a map of your stars then I had a revelation

**1934 — 1935**

  
  
  
  


Tom had heard, as all Christian children had at some point, that sometimes God liked to test people's faith in mysterious ways. He had heard stories about Jesus Christ or even the Virgin Mary masking themselves among the rejected and asking some unsuspecting bloke for help, to see if the bloke truly followed what Jesus had taught or if it was just gloating.

On the other hand, eight-years-old Tom Marvolo Riddle did not consider himself an enough Christian to have his faith tested in this way. Mrs. Cole always needed, after all, to stress over and threaten him with the wooden stick so Tom would stop dragging his feet to go to Mass. 

In addition, he’s been able to do things since he remember: he doesn’t know how to explain them without sounding bonkers but those things terrify children and staff alike at Wool's — Amy Benson once said Tom was the Devil's son, and perhaps he was, but since Amy just parroted the religious nonsense other religious fools spilled, Tom tended to ignore her.

Mostly.

If he were to be honest with himself, he would admit he was scared too: when the pipes exploded flooding the Orphanage's corridors, when Mrs. Cole's eyebrows changed colour because she'd scolded him for something he hadn’t done, when the cold and tasteless porridge burned the tongue of the orphans who'd spoke about him behind his back. 

Frustratingly enough, however, it didn't work when he'd wished for his father to show up or when he'd tried to make money appear out of thin air. He'd ended up knocking himself out once at the Cemetery when he tried to use whatever powers he had to bring his mother back.

So no, if there was indeed a God — Tom is beginning to become truly skeptical about it —, then this God didn't spend his time bothering with the likes of Tom Riddle.

The proof of this was Mrs. Cole, the Devil in a skirt herself, strolling into his room on that Christmas morning, threatening him with the Stick as she promised a colder night without any supper should Tom refuse to lift his heretic ass off of the mattress to get ready to Mass.

Tom dislikes Mass in general, but he loathes the Mass on Christmas morning. It's freezing outside and penniless orphans like him don’t have money to bought good clothes. Thinking about it, he hates winter too, fuck the tourists and their awed faces seeing snow for the first time, winter's just another big nightmare for the poor. 

Besides, Christmas’ morning Mass always took twice as long, not to mention people left the culverts to come to church and hear Father McKenzie’s blessing, which resulted in a forced share of the wooden bench and bumping elbows with strangers all the time.

Tom doesn’t understand why, old McKenzie speech was like a strayed cat with a hairball stuck in his throat trying to sound respectable: he mimicked the priest's voice, snickering under his breath as he laced his tight shoes.

Feeling rebellious, he decided to take his merry time to finish dressing, testing Mrs. Cole’s patience a bit more.

It didn't work out so well.

Mrs. Cole clutched his right earlobe, his fellow orphans sniggering loudly behind him as she made him walk beside her all the way to the church as she held his hand viciously. 

To set an example, she made him sit next to her on the bench so she could prevent him from slipping away. His fingers were almost purple from her grip as she smiled thinly and tightly at the depiction of the Virgin Mary on the altar — which, in his opinion, was very creepy-looking.

Nevertheless, Tom silently prayed to the Virgin Mary and asked her to kick Mrs. Cole in her blonde ass if the old woman ever got to Heaven, which he sincerely doubted would happen, Tom explained for the saint, unless Heaven was accepting funds’ thieves now.

In the midst of prayers, when Tom was almost drooling over Mrs. Cole shoulder lulled by the boring voice of the priest, the stinking tramp besides him moved aside to make room for a more fragrant woman: she smelled of cherries and homemade cookies. Her loose, long brown curls brushing against Tom, its ends tickling his cheeks as she sat. 

The tramp looked at her as if she were the Virgin incarnate.

What an idiot, Tom thought, aware that sometimes blokes got all red and awkward around pretty women — not that this one had a chance, Tom hid a snicker, a woman dressed in top-notch clothes like that would never look twice at a smelly bum or a snotty orphan ever.

“Wroof!”

“Shush, Sirius!” 

Tom startled, as did Mrs. Cole, the tramp and the other two people sitting on the bench.

None of them had noticed the huge black dog sneaking under the bench, resting next to the woman’s well-shod feet, looking at them with bright little eyes round with caution.

Curious, Tom extends his hand, the one he had managed to free from the Matron’s firm grip, for the dog to sniff. The dog leans closer and rapidly sniffs it, and then retreats slowly, showing Tom sharp white teeth in an unfriendly, menacingly, warningly gesture. 

Tom blinks, surprised, and withdraws his hand, frowning in thought. 

It’s part of what he is, whatever he is, but until now, it seemed a clear rule: animals are not a threat to him. Birds would knock at his window at the funniest times, even if he had not wished for them to. They would chirp, and perch on his shoulder and peck the other kids for him. Angry dogs would stop barking when he was around, and cats followed him with their feline eyes. Little garden snakes find him, whispering silly things as Tom whispers back, able to communicate with them since he could remember.

This one dog though, growls lowly and threateningly and for a moment Tom thought the beast would advance and bite his arm off: then, the woman bends down somewhat clumsily and scratch the dog's ears, whispering something only her dog could catch. To Tom, it seemed like she was mumbling in another language altogether.

Strangely, only those sitting on the bench were bothered by the dog's presence if at all, no one else seemed to notice the ugly, huge animal under their noses — after a minute, the dog glared nastily at him before begrudgingly resting its head on its paws, eyes still trailing Tom over as if waiting for an opportunity to behead him.

Tom’s eyes narrow sharp at it.

Silence washed over them.

Seven minutes, fifteen, half an hour passes. The obviously well-heeled woman seated next to him does not deign to apologize for her dog's bad behaviour, apparently the rich didn't care all that much about manners. Father McKenzie chokes third times on his own saliva before inviting the faithful to share the body and blood of Christ at the altar — which means the Mass is coming to an end.

Mrs. Cole gets up with one last withering glare towards him — Tom pays it half a mind, even the dogs were glaring at him today —, leaving him on the bench. Surprisingly, the dog's owner is the only adult who doesn’t go to the altar.

“Won't you get up?” he blurts out.

“Am I bothering you here?”

“Everyone else got up to break the bread.”

“You did not.”

“I can’t take it ‘til I’m older.” _Duh, obvious._ “What about you?”

“I wasn’t baptized,” she says simply. 

“Why are you here then?”

“To hear.”

“To hear?” 

“The prayers.”

“Why?”

“It’s soothing.”

“‘Kidding.” Tom gave her a look. “Why did you brin' it?”

“It?”

“The dog.”

“He’s my guide dog.”

“And why do you need to be guided by a dog?” Tom half snickered.

“I’m visually impaired.”

Tom frowned heavily. “What’s does that mean?”

“It means I’m blind.” 

She turned to him then: mesmerizingly green irises, a little misty if one looked too closely, eyes breathtakingly beautiful boring into his blue ones. Unseeing. 

_“Oh.”_

They fell silent.

“Does it hurt?” He couldn't help his own curiosity. “To be blind?”

“Physically? No, no,” she assured. “It's more of a social pain. It's hard to live in a world made only for those who can see with their eyes. It's a psychological issue as well to some people — me included,” she added. “I'm still adapting. I wasn't blind my entire life, you know.”

“And you need your dog to see for you?”

“To guide me, yes,” she explained, smiling.

“And couldn't you have picked a less noisy one?”

Tom thought she was going to hit him. Mrs. Cole had little patience for Tom’s everyday questions, and he had already asked a lot of _impertinent_ questions to this stranger.

She laughed then.

“His name is Sirius,” she said, and before Tom could ask where she’d got that odd name, she explained beamingly, “after the brightest star in Canis Majoris, the constellation. Is an appropriate name for a dog this size, don't you think?” She seemed proud of her dog-naming.

It was something else, he supposed, at least she wasn't simple-minded enough to name him something silly-sounding as Big Boy or too common as Spot. “It’s not horrid,” he offered. 

She smiled softly.

Tom thought she looked rather nice when she did it.

He risked another question. “What about the blind's rights?”

“The blind's rights?”

“There’s an organization in the States,” Tom shuffled his feet, cheeks a little warmer, “and it’s a big one. Well, _loud_ enough to be in the paper. Mrs. Cole said I can’t read it.”

“I won’t tell,” she promised him. “You want to know if there’s something like that here?”

“Yeah, like… is there?”

She smiled enigmatically. 

“Are you part of one?” he fired. “Is it like those meetings the older boys go? I mean, their meetings ain’t about the blinds rights but the poors’... Anyway, sometimes they talk ‘bout giving the King a hard time ‘coz they work too much and earn little—” She had a serious expression on her face as he rambled. Tom stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen,” she says, “those meetings you’re talking about are illegal. If you tell the wrong person about them, your friends and you’ll be in trouble with the police.”

Tom paled: he had thought the older boys were excluding the others for the sake of being pricks, perhaps because they thought themselves as something important now they worked out of the Orphanage and had their secret meetings with more educated workers. 

Annoyingly enough, he couldn't even use what she said as an asset against the other boys. Threats have a delicate balance, Tom discovered, and if the threat were too great, Tom could harm himself more than take advantage of the situation. Undoubtedly, if he threatened the older boys with the police, he would be in big trouble faster than his legs could run.

Tom looked at her thoughtfully.

Mrs. Cole returned, her pursed thin lips cut all attempts to conversation short.

When the Mass was over and before the Matron could drag him away by the earlobe, the woman Tom had talked to at the last hour of it touched his shoulder and said, “My name is Elladora, by the way. Elladora Peregrine.” Her touch was blazing.

Her fingers managed to burn him even though he was wrapped up in his unfitting grey uniform from the orphanage. He felt her warmth weaken the icy feeling that had eaten his bones since the day he was born. Was that what people called a mother's touch?

He stares at her. 

Perhaps Tom was seeing things after two hours listening to Father McKenzie more coughing than reading the words in the Bible, perhaps, he was even going mad; but in the midst of all those saints with frozen expressions in stained, colourful glass, he could have sworn there was a shift in the air: the candles in the church threatened to blow out.

“Mine’s Tom,” he says, mood surprisingly brighter, unsuspecting, “Tom Riddle.”

A shadow of uncertainty briefly obscures Miss Peregrine's smile.

The wind whispers an ominous tale: three brothers, three distinct choices, three gifts.

Tom Riddle walks back to the colourless building he’d slept in night after night since he was born, Mrs. Cole gripping his hand tightly, unforgiving.

On his way to Wool’s, Tom distracts himself thinking about this uncanny character he had met in one of his least favourite places, St. James's Church: it was as if she shouldn't be there among all those people, making small-talk and smiling warmly to and at him. As if she doesn't quite fit among others — Tom's stomach drops, that's too familiar a feeling — and at the same time, as if there was no place in the world she would fit better. 

He doesn't hear the warning in the wind.

Tom sees her again three days after. 

He had caught a cold that developed quickly into something more serious, lefting him isolated, feverish and delirious in his bed. 

Mrs. Cole even called Dr. Williams to see him after Joanna, an older girl and the one stuck to nurse him this time, insisted he was getting worse by the minute. The drugs Dr. Williams had prescribed were, however, very expensive and the orphanage couldn't afford it, so Tom was being treated with the affordable thin soups, flavourless stew and hot teas. 

Tom is sure he is dying.

He can feel Death's long, spidery, sticky fingers curling around his neck. He feels that he is sinking into immensity and nothingness, and wonders if the absence of colour that obscured his vision and dreams means that it is already too late.

A silvery streak — a cane, a sword and a heart on a weighing plate, words in a language that he cannot understand reverberated inside the walls of his skull like a hammer in a shield — cuts through the fog of his thoughts, pushing Death's fingers away from his neck. 

He sighs and sleeps, relieved.

When Tom opens his eyes, Miss Peregrine is sitting at his headboard, running her fingertips over the pages of a beautiful book full of embossed dots, reading aloud to him. 

“... and the Warlock died with a heart in each hand: his hairy heart, and the maiden's.”

Sirius covers his muzzle with a paw, whining at the outcome.

Tom was inclined to agree with the dog: what rubbish! And he had thought Cinderella, Snow White and the Beauty and the Beast were utter rubbish before he heard this one.

“It’s okay, boy.” She let her blue-covered book aside, bending down a little to pet her dog's head. “I won’t let the Warlock take your heart too.”

Sirius just give Tom a sullen look as if it was his fault she had choose to tell this tale, ignoring Miss Peregrine reassuring words. Tom refrains from sticking his tongue out at him.

“How'd you get in?”

“Oh, you’re awake!” Tom rolled his eyes, of course he was. “Are you better?”

Tom shrugged. “I think so. Why’re you here?”

“To see you,” she says, “and tell ominous tales about soulless wizards in the hope you’ll find something useful as a counter-argument. What else?”

Tom thought about it.

It made no sense to him.

“I’ve been through quite an ordeal lately,” she continues, fidgeting with her cane's handle a little. It's a raven’s head, now he notices. “And then I thought… why not?”

“Why not _what_?”

“Adopt you.”

Tom’s heart began beating so fast he feared it would escape through his throat. Adoption seemed an impossible dream with every passing day, he was getting too old for this, couples preferred babies and Tom sometimes regretted not making an effort to be seen by them sooner.

“Are you serious?”

“Uh-hum.”

“I can’t,” he says. “What if—” What if his father came looking for him? “We're strangers.” There. Now he wouldn’t sound weak or disrespectful. “What your husband will say?”

She stretched the fingers of both hands towards him, showing him the absence of a ring. “My husband won’t be a problem since I don’t have one. It’s just me and ol’ Sirius.”

Sirius barked.

“Still.”

Tom was probably the most moronic orphan to set foot on Earth. The woman was willing to adopt him even without the backing of a husband and he was looking for excuses. 

“What’s it?”

“You’ll won’t like me.” That’s not completely a lie, she probably would ran screaming if she saw the things he could do. “I’m unworthy the trouble, miss.”

“Are you?” She tilted her head. “You see, I had an uncle who said, and I quote, ‘a troublemaker who runs from the unworthy trouble is no worthy troublemaker.’” She leaned closer and confided in a conspiratorial tone. “I fancy myself a worthy troublemaker, see.”

Tom shook his head, disbelieving. “Crazy.”

“All the great people are.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Let’s say I accept: why me?”

“Aside from you being dashingly charming?” Tom’s eyes sharpened at her wry tone. “I find we’ve many similarities. And you’re not being properly instructed here.”

“I know, right? Mr. Umbridge doesn’t even known math and teaches it at school—”

She choked with laughter. “Math, what? No! My, they not have it in the books—" She interrupted herself middle sentence, breathlessly. Tom just stared, hands balled into fists, waiting for her to finish mocking him. “What I mean is: you’re not instructed in magic here.”

“Magic,” he repeated disbelieving, snorting. “Like the Wizard of Oz or a miracle of God?”

She stretches a hand to him, there's a penny on her palm. It shimmers and turns into a lily.

Tom's eyes widen.

He stretches his fingers, trying to touch the flower, mesmerized by its glowing white petals. It's beautiful and—

And the lily catches fire out of the blue.

He muffles a yelp, recoiling.

“You're mad!"

"As mad as you are, Tom?" she retorts with an eyebrow arched. “I don't think so."

“Who told you?!”

“Is there something to tell?” Tom blanched, thinking about Billy Stubbs' rabbit. “I can sense magic. Yours' strong, Tom.”

“I'm— I don't—”

“You do.”

They fell silent until his curiosity won over.

“What are we?” 

“I’m a witch and you’re a wizard,” she explained. “We’re magic. It’s what we are, it’s what we do: magic. Good or bad, creative or destructive, positive or negative: magic.”

“Can you teach me?” He looked up at her expectantly. “How to… control?”

"I suppose," she hummed a bit. "Until you get your Hogwarts' letter that is."

“My—”

“Hogwarts is a school of magic.” She waved him off the topic as if to say it wasn’t that big of a deal. “All eleven-year-olds go there to learn the basics of essential magical fields. If you ask me though, the educational system of the Wizarding community here in Britain is—”

“I didn't ask you.”

“That's rude!”

“Sorry.” He didn’t felt very sorry though.

And she had seen through his lie and giggled. 

“I have a cottage by the lake at Godric's Hollow — it's a southwestern village, quite charming.” She tilted her head, curls breaking free from her braid. “You can come live with me, if you wish.” And isn't _wishing_ what he's been doing all his life?

“Are you serious?”

“No, Sirius' me dog.”

“That's—,” _a shitty joke_ , “not funny.” 

“You can teach me better jokes and I can teach you magic, what about it?”

“You met me yesterday.”

“More like three days ago if I recall.”

Tom stared at her. “You're odd, y'know it, right?”

“Says the boy sneaking onto Communist-oriented associations and telling a stranger about it.”

“I am _not_ sneaking on Communists!” Tom protests. “They eat children!”

“Oooh, careful now Tom, there’s too much appetizing meat in your bones for them.” Tom scowled, knowing he was skin-and-bones and would do a broom envy. “They do not, relax.”

“I’m not scared! You doesn’t need to—”

“‘Course I don’t.” 

She smirks.

Tom thinks he doesn’t dislikes that on her.

The third time he sees her, it's New Year's Eve. It's the morning of his ninth birthday. 

She'd brought him a cake.

It's made of dark chocolate and strawberry and Tom is sure he never ate something so delicious. He was on the third slice when she told him about the Basilisk dilemma.

“... and all because I had decided to hatch an egg with a toad in my first year.”

“And it worked?”

“‘Course not," she scoffed. “I had the _wrong_ type of egg.”

“How so?”

“Scorpius thought it funny if it was a peacock egg instead of a chicken's.” She rolls her eyes amusedly. “I didn't notice the difference 'til late.”

“How’d you got that wrong?” 

“... Unchecking my trunk?”

Tom arches his brows, judging. 

“Thinking now, it's a good thing he did it then,” she continues evenly, unaware of his inner questioning over her sanity, “because I'm no parselmouth.”

“Parselmouth?”

“A wizard or witch with the ability to speak with snakes and understand them.”

“I can do that!”

“You're probably the only wizard in Britain who can.” 

Tom’s lips quirk up into a full smile with such a stunning discovery.

It could only mean he was special even amongst the special folk. He never wanted to be common, after all, and perhaps with her he does not need to. Perhaps, living with her could be his chance to belong without having to change his character to fit a role. He reconsiders her proposal about adoption.

Suddenly, it seemed more... _Real._

“Can you tell me more?”

She indulges him.

By midnight, Tom can see the fireworks — red, white, blue — flying, burning in the night sky from the shattered window of his grey room at Wool's Orphanage. 

The other orphans and staff are out there in the yard, celebrating — for him, there is nothing to be celebrated. Everything here is grey and cold as hell whose fire had died and left only the ashes to fall on the heads of the damned —, and he is the only one inside the building.

“Grumpy Tom,” the staff whispers dismissively, “old beyond his years.”

The true is that Tom Riddle does not fit among them, he never had been like the other children. He always had been an outcast here — now he understands why.

What would they do if they knew what he was, Tom thought, would they try to exorcise him, burn him alive as they had done to those poor women centuries ago?

A loud _CRACK_ was heard, cutting his line of thought, making him jump from his spot.

Peregrine was wearing a long, sleeveless white dress that glowed in the darkness of his gloom room, a piece of grey bricks and painted wood lit solely by the lights of the fireworks out there, her silvery cane was missing as well as her loyal dog. She wasn't smiling, she was only standing there, waiting with her hands stretched as if she possessed Time itself.

The scent of cherries, cakes and magic hit his nostrils full force, and he takes her hand, for she’s the only warmth he knows and the only hope he has from escaping this hellhole, his father hadn’t come for him in all those years and maybe Tom could bring him up to her.

Maybe she could find his father with her magic. 

And how can he refuse such an opportunity? How can he refuse to be Icarus and feel the warmth of Sun once in his life even if it burns his wings out in the end?

She doesn’t burn him.

Sometimes Tom can't believe she's real.

Tom eats gingerbread biscuits seated on the stool attached to the counter, watching Dora hum a soft tune while she takes another form of warm biscuits from the oven.

Sirius was jumping up and down in the kitchen, wagging his tail between Dora's legs and pleading for one of her marvellous biscuits. She trips on him thrice, scolding him and walking him out of the room before changing the music on the radio to a jazz program.

Tom bites another biscuit, she's a terrible singer but a wonderful cooker. He wonders about what would have happened to him — to them — if he had never met her.

Would he die of a fever that day? Would he have survived to discover he was a wizard only when he received his letter from Hogwarts at his eleventieth birthday? Would he have drowned that nasty Amy Benson in a pool of mud like he would sometimes like to do? Would he go totally bonkers at some point and then try to erase all the Muggles from Earth?

The latter was the most likely.

“Can we go skatin' later?”

“Of course.” She beamed brightly, putting more cookie dough into the molds on the counter. Sirius opened the door with a paw and slipped discreetly into the kitchen. “But I’ve to send some owls first. ‘Guess I’m going to send Harry’s one. What d’you think?”

“Seems nice.” _If_ they still had sweets to send to Harry by then, that is — Tom stifled a laugh as Sirius stole a plate of biscuits from the table behind Dora and slipped out as silently. 

Tom reached for another biscuit.

He had heard stories, as all Christian children had at some point, that sometimes God liked to test people's faith in mysterious ways. He had heard that, sometimes, Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary would mask themselves amongst the rejected and then talk to some unsuspecting bloke.

Watching Dora's brown curls shine red with the sunlight streaming through the kitchen’s window, the serene expression on her face, he finally believes these stories. Maybe she was truly God in disguise.

Perhaps, _they_ were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, reposting it. I deleted the previous version because I'm such a moron but AT LAST I corrected my grammar and the cringeworthy moments of this chapter AND NOW I'm ready to upload the third chapter (if my internet cooperates with me that is).
> 
> Also, THANKS to all the cariños who'd kudoed this fanfic thus far :D wish I could give y'all kudos back for all the patience and time.
> 
> The chapter's title is from 'Venus' by Sleeping At Last. I love their music.
> 
> Next chapter: Riddles and horse-riding.


	3. Choked up, I realize I’ve been less than half myself for more than half my life

**1936**

“Why are you so convinced that this woman has no good intentions regarding him?”

Tom took a deep breath.

Indeed, why was he so suspicious of the woman who had had adopted his son? Was it because his son rambled about her on the phone in a way that made Tom feel like an unworthy parent? Was it because he was projecting his own fears as a parent on her? Or was it because he saw another woman's face flickering in the half-light when he thought about her?

How could he explain this to his father without sounding utterly paranoid? He had already discussed his early suspicions about the woman with his parents: what would a woman who was not even married _want_ with a child in a society that despised single mothers?

His parents had also been concerned — for both their grandchild well-being and their son’s peace of mind — and they had called the lawyers to check out her story with the authorities.

The information Tom had collected in conversations he had on the phone with his son checked frustratingly against the records that the authorities had of her: she would turn twenty-seven on July 30, her name is Elladora Lily Peregrine, lost both parents before reaching legal age and lost her vision completely at twenty-one — her condition as a blind young woman lessened his parents' concerns about her intentions but not his.

If anything, it only made Tom more and more suspicious of her, considering she’d lost her vision after a freakish, poorly explained situation. To be precise, her existence was poorly explained: her documentation was incomplete, her medical and schoolar records practically empty — which Tom found ironic, considering that **a)** she was blind and certainly needed some kind of medical care and **b)** his son had mentioned, in a mixture of incredulity and awe, that she had studied and graduated with honors in a prestigious Scottish boarding school.

Hogwarts School, what a ridiculous, absurd name. 

It sounded somewhat familiar, but it did not immediately ring any bells in his head. His parents shared his opinion about the mysterious place, none of them had heard of Hogwarts.

Fortunately for her, Tom could only blame her for bragging around about school grades, which is not a crime, per se; he could not, however, take her to court for falsifying her own paperwork: the Registry Office in London confirmed the existence of a Elladora L. Peregrine born in Godric's Hollow, Somerset, England, in 1909, to Lily L. and Marius D. Peregrine.

Miss Peregrine had adopted his son on December 30, 1934 and picked him up on January 1st, 1935 as his lawyers checked with the Matron at Wool's Orphanage, Mrs. Cole, a nasty woman according to his son. Tom didn't enjoy one bit the stories his son told him about the Matron, the way she treated him and the lack of care she showed towards the orphans’ welfare.

Tom doubted this Mrs. Cole would have properly interviewed the woman who had had adopted his son. She didn’t seem the type of person able to judge properly the character of a parent-to-be, probably she’d just collected the fees and let Peregrine take his son away.

Tom slumped into the upholstered chair in front of his father’s mahogany worktable. And it was all his fault, wasn't it? That his own son had born in squalor, spending nearly a decade in a Godforsaken place on the outskirts of London and who’d been saved by a stranger’s pity.

A stranger he’s wary about.

He's not sure why he’s so mistrustful of his son’s foster mother. Maybe he was trying to blame her for something bad in an attempt to feel less guilty about being a shitty father, perhaps he resented her for having done all the things he had been unable to do in the past decade — taking responsibility for a child, smiling lightly and easily enough as to wrinkle her skin — or maybe not, perhaps he’s right and she’s a creepy sort of woman not unlike Merope had been.

Thinking of her, Tom was too much occupied worrying over the Peregrine affair to process her death and toast at her demise. He decided to pour himself some cognac, disgusted with himself — he's pretty sure that thinking about giving his son the best birthday parties from now on to celebrate both his birth and Merope's death isn't exactly a healthy thought.

He drained his glass.

What mattered, however, is that right now he didn't have the rational answer his father expected to receive. He just had a feeling — a feeling that ate at his guts and told him not to trust his son’s foster mother so easily, that there was something off, something nefarious lurking beneath the perfectly harmless facade she’d crafted and presented to the world.

“It’s just a feeling,” he exhaled heavily.

"A feeling.” Thomas Riddle repeated, brows arched, peering at his son from behind his semilunar spectacles, watching him dishevel his locks in frustration. “Has my grandson _implied_ at something?”

“No, but—”

Thomas sighed, removing his golden-framed spectacles.

“Son, you do realize this woman's not some tramp's daughter, don't you? Careful of the things you accuse her of being and doing,” he cut in, admonishingly. “You heard the lawyers.”

Tom's bottom lip curled in displeasure. “Clearly, father, but this doesn’t mean—”

“It _means_ , son,” his father bristled, cleaning his lenses with a flannel, “that she’s legally guardian of little Tom and can claim abandonment and neglect from your part towards your son and charge _you_ for this if it comes to court.” Tom paled at the possibility of permanently losing custody of his son and being held judicially responsible for it. 

His father ignored him. Thomas Riddle replaced his specs calmly, then hold his son in place with a steady look. “Her claim would be endorsed by the Adoption of Children's Act, not to mention she would have support from the jury — your son adores her, don’t you forget.”

Tom's right eyebrow twitched.

As if he needed to be reminded of it.

“There must be a loophole,” he insisted stubbornly.

If the matter of custody come to the court, undoubtedly he would be painted as the villain: the major proof of his villainy would be his son fondness for the foster parent.

Squire Thomas Riddle eyed his only son and heir carefully.

“It must.” Thomas leaned back in his armchair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “But until we do find it, it's better if you don't sign your death warrant.” 

“Don't worry, father.” Tom fills another glass of cognac under his father's scrutiny, ignoring the inquisitiveness swimming in his brown eyes. “I’ll behave.”

Next month, his son would come from Godric's Hollow to spend the summer with them at Little Hangleton, and his son's foster mother would be there to accompany the visitation. 

Tom drained another glass in one go.

He would have plenty of time to dissect the woman's brain. If there was something wrong about her, something that threatened his son's safety, as he’s sure there is, he would find out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As the visitation grew closer by the day, Tom Riddle drank more and smoked more — much to his mother's displeasure —, an attempt to appease the nervousness and restlessness that grew inside him: insomnia was his morning tea and an access of nerves was his supper.

He’d made life difficult for everyone, as a side effect of his conflicting self combined with his drinking habits: during the day, employees avoided being in the same room as Tom after he had started an argument that ended with young Frank Bryce punching him straight in his teeth — nineteen-year-old Frank Bryce boldly stated, for the whole house to hear, that he’d rather be in the streets than withstand the wailing of such a spoiled bastard for one more day. 

His father pulled on an outraged face at Frank Bryce’s words but had to swallow his pride eventually: Mary Riddle couldn’t possibly lose her gardener because of a man’s pride, not when Mrs. Bryce had tended so dutifully to Mrs. Riddle’s flowers all this years. 

Tom had embarrassed the Riddles with his appalling manners towards the gardener’s son, and as a punishment, his father decided to cut his alcohol for undetermined time.

“I don’t _care_ if you’re thirty,” his father bristled in response to his protests. “This is _my_ house, and as long as _you_ live here, you _will_ respect my rules or I can and I _will_ ground you.”

Right after, Tom had broken some of the furniture inside his bedroom and thrown its pieces from his balcony to the gardens, scaring the hell out of Martha, their new maid, who'd been (shamelessly flirting) helping Frank Bryce wash his face in the fountain down there. 

“You have no shame, boy!” His father bellowed from the hallway, furious. “No shame at all! Mary! Mary, call Dr. Campbell, I've enough of it! Enough!”

Tom had merely sneered in response, unsurprised with his father’s usual threat, but it wasn’t just a threat then: he had been drugged, despite of his loud curses and violent kicks.

When he'd woke up, he drowned himself in self-pity and burned tobacco. He’d refused to give more than monosyllabic answers, to leave his bedroom or to eat a full meal for a week. 

“Grandma Mary said you're sick.” Tom felt his heart sank at his son's worried words on the other side of the telephonic line. He hasn't been talking to Jr. since Dr. Campbell and the nurses came to _calm_ _him down_. “Are you okay now?”

“I'll be.” His voice had come out painfully rasp. “Soon.”

That was as good as a lie: during night, when he surrendered to sleep after staying awake longer than recommended, he dreamt of magic and witches and its twisted purposes, and would wake his parents, and the unlucky employees who’d slept under the Riddles’ roof with cries for help. There’s no certainty in saying he would be _okay_ anytime soon. 

Inside his room, the second largest bedroom in the house, Tom wakes from a nightmare, breathing heavily as sweat pours from his skin to the silk sheets of his bed. His sheets are cool, pleasantly so, and he’d used its coolness to calm himself down a bit before a sudden queasiness overwhelmed him, making his body twitch and puke all his dinner on the floor.

Tom, trembling, took a few tense, long moments to convince himself that everything was fine, _she isn’t here,_ and when he did, he felt too weak to get up and too terrified to go back to sleep, so he remained awake, with his head back on the pillows and his eyes on the canopy.

Slowly and softly, he whistled a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a boy. He didn't remember what exactly the song was about, but the melody always soothed him.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Tom slowed his breathing slightly, hoping his mother would understand the silence as a sign that he was sleeping and did not want to be disturbed.

“Tom, sweet, I know you’re there.” To his infinite misfortune, however, his mother knew him well enough, and would continue insisting, calling him from the hallway until he answered. 

He rearranged himself, his pillows and his sheets in a comfortable position to sit, sighing heavily and exasperatedly saying, “Just watch where you step, will you?”

Mary Riddle walked in with hair in an one-sided braid, violet-blue nightgown, the same shade of her eyes, billowing at her feet as she did. She avoided looking at the vomit as much as she avoided stepping on it, sitting down next to him and holding his hands between hers. 

“I did it again, didn't I?”

His mother nodded sheepishly, he closed his eyes. Of course he had to scream in his slumber and wake the entire house up. _Of-fucking-course._

“Sorry.”

She squeezed his fingers. “There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.”

Tom silently disagreed, there's a lot to be sorry for, he thinks. Now, though, he wants just his mother here comforting him — regardless of being undeserving of her gentleness as he is.

They spent a long time in silence, Tom absorbed in his own uncertainties whilst his mother studied his hands as if she had never seen anything more fascinating in her life.

Sometimes he would shift slightly and brush or squeeze her fingers just to make sure she was still there by his side, and she would squeeze his fingers back, showing that she cared and would keep him company even when he was on the verge of drowning himself in self-doubt.

Again.

“Mother, do you think—," he snapped his eyes open, "—do you think I'm going to be a good father?"

"Of course, Tom, sweet!" she exclaimed as if such a thing had never occurred to her before and the mere thought left her stunned. "Of course you will be a good father. You are smart—,”

Tom snorted loudly, derisively. “I let my son rot for almost a decade in an orphanage after Merope— well, you know, mother.” He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t very _smart_ of me.”

“I said you’re smart, not infallible,” she said. “And you’re a fine, well-mannered—,”

“The Bryce's don’t think so,” he replied wryly. “I don’t think Mrs. Bryce’s going to forgive me anytime soon.” Not after he had said her son would be better off dead in a ditch anyway.

“Well, you _do_ have a temper, sweet,” she admitted, nose wrinkled and brows furrowed, undoubtedly searching for the most gentle way of putting things. “I think it’s the drinking.”

Tom refrained from rolling his eyeballs, he didn't know whether he was more grateful or exasperated with her attempts to contradict him, to excuse his wrongs. 

His mother straightened her shoulders, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “You can deny it all you like, but I know you: my creative, sensible, true boy.” She tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear. “You’re a good man. I have no doubt you’ll do a wonderful father to my grandson.”

“I _left_ my son,” he pointed out again, sulky. “How’s that being good? How’s that a sign—”

“You were confused and afraid then, not of being a father, but of _her._ ” His mother always refused to say Merope’s name out loud as if she feared he would break at the mention. “You thought she was _lying_ to keep you! And you have returned to him in time, it’s what matters.”

“Is it? It was purely accidental! I would never know—”

“Yet.” She eyed him. “He has a father now, one who’s here, right beside me, losing sleep worrying over being the best father one can be. It’s more than most have, more than most do.”

“And if it’s not enough?” he asked. “What if _I_ am not enough? What if— what if he prefers his _mother_ and doesn't even want to look me in the face when I screw up?”

“Oh, Tom.” She hold his face between her hands, rubbing his cheekbones with her thumbs. “How can you be so sure you’ll be so bad at parenting when you haven’t experienced it yet?”

"How can you be sure I won’t?!" he retorted, slapping her hands away and grabbing his locks viciously in a fit. His mother didn’t leave his side, she didn’t even blink. “How can he not hate me already?! How can he not hate me after everything he’s been through—”

“Your son doesn’t hate you,” she told him sharply. “He wouldn't spend almost an hour every night chattering on the phone with you if he hated you.” His mother gently untangled his fingers from his hair and went back to holding both his hands in hers. “He likes you, sweetheart, and he’s willing to be a good son if you are willing to be the father he needs."

"And will _I_ be the father he needs?"

"Are you willing to be?"

Tom nodded firmly, a gesture more out of stubbornness than calmness in that moment, because of course he was willing to be the best father for his son, how could it be otherwise?

"Then you will be." She kissed his temple tenderly. It was soothing, especially when Tom’s lips were trembling, curled into a watery smile. "Many things are more simple than we thought them to be at first. We complicated them, silly creatures we are.” Tom let it go then.

He cried, sure that, no matter what, his mother would be always there to hold him tight.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Frank Bryce begrudgingly accepted his apologies after a bit of talk. At least they could agree they both have a terrible temper as Dot, the village's gossiper, liked to point out.

Mrs. Bryce, Frank's mother, on the other hand, did not accept it — understandably so, Tom thought: he doesn't know what he would do if his son were to be treated in a similar fashion.

“'S hurtful hear your son's life doesn' ma'ter,” she sniffed, twisting his handkerchief in her calloused hands. “My Frank isn' a saint, sir, but I love 'im with all my heart.”

Tom nodded and left her be.

Martha, the maid, blushed and stammered it wasn't necessary, but Tom was set to apologize and so he did. She had accepted his apologies, but she still avoided him as much as possible — Tom could understand her reasons to do so too.

It wasn't an habit of him, cleaning his messes and apologizing for his mistakes, but he's been thinking hard about the kind of father he wants to be for his son and this Tom — angry, drunken, neglecting and violent — isn't the man he wants his son to inspire himself in.

The ill-mannered, jealous, paranoid, obsessed Tom isn't the man he wants to be either. _Peregrine isn’t Merope. My son isn’t me._ He wants to be a better father and to do that, firstly he needs to learn to be a better man — for both his sake and his son's.

He'd come to realize this heaviness in his heart doesn't belong to him: he lost so many years of his life, so many opportunities to smile and party and grow responsible and do important things, and it was so difficult to remember — it was impossible to remember — that he could do all those things when he saw other people his age _living_ , so many time wasted mulling over what could've had been and what could’ve had not, he'd forgot what mattered most: to rebuilt himself out of the shards, to live, to love and to be loved. 

He doesn't know if he could muster such bravery, he's still hurting and bleeding and doubting, but he wants to try. Of course, he could never return to be the man he was before and that was the most difficult thing to swallow down, nothing could unmake the past; forgiving himself for losing so much time was difficult too, he isn't sure he did it at all, but he's trying. He repeats to himself on and on and on, that he still has time, that he could be someone different from now and before. Someone new.

Someone better.

Passing through his mother's well-kept garden, the scent of roses and hydrangeas high in the air, a nod of acknowledgment to the Bryces working with daffodil and orchid seedlings and trimming weeds, he spots tiny white bells in the distance: lilies-of-the-valley.

 _These are Miss Peregrine's favourites,_ he thinks offhandedly, remembering his son telling him about the woman’s predilection for lilies.

Although what type of lily hadn’t been specified.

He has been overthinking about her too, quite frankly, and to be fair, he doesn't think she's the monster he'd painted in his head. She hadn’t been nothing but comprehensive and supportive about his relationship with Tom the few times he’d spoke with her, and she didn't seem to hold a grudge against him after his rather rude approach to her the first time they have talked.

If anything, she'd been cautious when he'd invited them over to visit, which is only rational.

She could always prove herself as something other, of course, but for now Tom decided to drop the needle. He supposed he should offer an apology to her as well for facing her existence as an enemy when the only enemy he had all this time was buried six feet under.

He picked up a lily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, actually, this chapter is half the original. I thought the chapter itself was too big so I divided it in two, which means the next chapter will take less time to be posted. Thanks to everyone who left kudos and who commented on the fanfic so far: D and thanks to the support of those who send me messages in private too; my twitter is @lvelyeda. Sometimes I post fanfic stuff (including some drawings) of the characters there, so here's the suggestion :)
> 
> 'Nine' by Sleeping At Last, is the song where I got the title for this chapter. Did I say I love their music?
> 
> In the next chapter we will have Tom Jr.'s meeting with the other Riddles and father and son riding I PROMISE. See you there :D


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